


Like a fish on a hook

by smallvictories



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Study, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mike Ehrmantraut-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, gun violence (mention)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallvictories/pseuds/smallvictories
Summary: He misses Matty so much, it's like missing a limb. He can't quite walk on his own and he's stumbling but no one seems to notice or care. How could anyone care though? He doesn't give them a chance.
Relationships: Mike Ehrmantraut & Matty Ehrmantraut
Comments: 18
Kudos: 18





	Like a fish on a hook

He stares into the light glinting off the barrel of his pistol. Tonight's the night. He picks up the pistol and cradles it in his hands. It's loaded. In his line of work, it's in his best interest to keep a few loaded pieces around the house. Of course, he makes sure they're all unloaded and locked away if Kaylee is coming over. 

Kaylee. How will she do without a grandpa, on top of being without a father? He finishes his beer in one long gulp and tosses the empty can on the floor with the others. Would she ever understand? Or would she grow up to become empty, like him? He tries to clear his head with a shake, but that makes it worse.

He looks around and tries to count the empty cans, but there's too many to keep track. He closes his eyes and lays back in the recliner until the room finally stops spinning. Hoffman and Fensky, those scumbags. He should've let them kill him. It would've been hard on Stacey and Kaylee, but it would've been so much easier on him. He killed them, for all the good it did. They're gone and Matty's _still_ gone.

He misses Matty so much, it's like missing a limb. He can't quite walk on his own and he's stumbling but no one seems to notice or care. How could anyone care though? He doesn't give them a chance. He knows Stacey suspects that he's drinking again, but she gives him his space. What else is she gonna do? When she asks if he's okay he says _I'm fine, I'm okay, I'm just tired._

He as good as killed his own son. That's not going away. He's always going to see something or think of something and want to tell Matty about it. He's always going to think of him when he listens to the ballgame on the radio and be flooded with vivid memories of Matty bouncing with excitement in the car on the way to the ballgame. He remembers how they would sing "take me out to the ballgame" on the way there and the way home.

He remembers when Kaylee was finally old enough to come along with them. She wasn’t quite old enough to walk yet. She was bundled up in a pink coat, with a little Phillies hat on. She was the cutest thing. On the drive there, Matty sat in the back with Kaylee. He couldn't stand to be up in the front. Even when she was sleeping, he wouldn't ever be able to relax if he were away from her. _Pop, she hasn't made a sound for at least 10 minutes, can you pull over?_ He'd laugh and tell him, _Babies sleep sometimes, Matty, enjoy it_. But he never could.

He remembers sneaking glances in the rearview at Matty, watching him lean over Kaylee's car seat to play with her little feet. Matty was singing to her. _Take me out to the ball game, take me out to the crowd_ …

Matty was an excellent father. How much credit he deserves for that, he really isn't sure. He never knew his father, or his grandfathers. He had to make it up as he went along. God knows he fucked it up more than once. He never thought he'd get his own son killed though. Not even he could predict that big of a fuck up.

He caresses the grip of his pistol with his thumb. Who would find him though? He wouldn't want Stacey to come looking. Maybe he could call 911 and do it right after? It would be simpler this way. Maybe he could do it in the tub? That would make it easier on the clean-up crew.

A sense of calm settles over him. He's so tired, but he's going to fix that. He stands up unsteadily with the pistol in his hand, empty beer cans falling to the floor with a clatter. He stumbles down the dim hallway to his bedroom and retrieves the portable phone from its cradle. When he enters the bathroom and turns on the light, the sight of his own face in the mirror catches his eye. When did he get so old?

He sets the phone down on the edge of the sink and rubs his free hand over his face. He turns to look at the bathtub. He picks the phone up from the sink and steps into the tub, sitting down awkwardly. It’s time, he’s ready. He gets situated and looks around the bathroom. It’s better to close the shower curtain and keep the mess in the tub. He pulls the curtain closed with a sigh.

He looks down at the phone in one hand and his pistol in the other. If he calls 911, will he go through with it? He isn’t sure. He thinks maybe if he hears another person’s voice right now, he’ll stop. He won’t go through with it. If the cops get here and find him a blubbering mess in the bathtub with a gun, best case scenario, they’ll shoot him, or more likely, they’ll cart him away to the looney bin. It’s now or never. He can’t fuck this up. He hopes that a neighbour will hear the gunshot and call 911. It will be easier this way.

He’s breathing hard now. This is so simple yet so difficult. He wishes someone would do this for him. That someone could understand that this is the best thing for him now. He brings his knees up and lays down flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He can do this. Just one pull and it’s over. He won’t have to wake up and relive his heartbreak over and over. No more nightmares. No more being a disappointment. It will be over.

He disengages the safety and takes a few quick breaths before he puts the barrel in his mouth. The cold, sharp tang of the metal mixes with the aftertaste of beer. He hasn’t believed in heaven or hell for a long time, but he hopes there’s _something._ Maybe he’ll see Matty again. His hand trembles and he bites down gently on the barrel. He exhales and counts down. _3… 2… 1…_

_Click._

The empty click of the misfire echoes in his skull. _Fuck._ That was it. That was all he had, and it didn’t work? His obsessively maintained pistol _misfired?_ He bites down harder on the barrel, until his teeth ache. His finger shakes against the trigger. _One quick pull._ He did it once, he can do it again. He hesitates for what feels like hours before he finally spits the pistol out and sets it down on the floor beside the tub.

As soon as he hears the dull clunk of the metal against the floor, he’s overcome with an intense wave of nausea. He vomits over himself. When he’s finally done heaving, he starts to sob. He cries harder than he’s let himself cry for ages. It’s only once he is finally spent and feels like he has no more moisture left to produce tears that he’s able to catch his breath.

“Coward.” He slurs. “You fucking _coward.”_

He clumsily peels off his ruined clothes and piles them in the tub, setting the pistol and phone on top. He draws the curtain and leaves the whole disgusting mess to be dealt with in the morning. He stands in front of the mirror and brushes his teeth, relieved slightly as the disgusting bile taste in his mouth is replaced with mint. He rinses his mouth and splashes cold water on his face. 

He’s furious. The person who ruined his life is looking back at him in the mirror, and he couldn’t even kill him. Not only did Matty die for six thousand measly fucking dollars, but he also had to learn right at the end that his own father was a piece of shit, good-for-nothing rat that went against everything he stood for. He dries his face and staggers back to his bedroom. He knows he shouldn’t, but he needs to. He opens his closet and shifts some luggage out of the way, revealing loose floorboards. He hooks his fingernails in and pops them open, revealing a shoebox.

He pulls out the box and heads to his bed, switching on his bedside lamp. He opens the box with a shaky exhale. He pulls several things out, a baseball mitt, a model airplane, a matchbox car, and a couple photographs. He stares down at the photograph of Matty in uniform. He took it so seriously and it showed in his face. He really thought he could do something good by being a cop. Maybe he wouldn’t have bothered if he found out sooner what his dad was.

He looks over at Matty’s baseball mitt and feels a pang in his heart. He remembers playing catch with Matty in the backyard. Not nearly as often as he would’ve liked to. Work was so demanding and kept him from home so much of the time. He really missed a lot of Matty growing up. He picks up the mitt carefully and presses it over his face, inhaling deeply. Of course, it just smells like musty leather. He doesn’t know why he smells it every time. He can’t help it. His baby’s hand was in this mitt once.

He puts everything back except the mitt and slips the box underneath his bed. He turns out the light and slides under the covers. He clutches the mitt to his chest and weeps. His baby’s gone. There’s nothing he can do about it and his baby’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading 🥰 Kudos and comments appreciated.
> 
> The title is inspired by the song _Bird on a wire_ by Johnny Cash, a beautifully sad song that reminds me of Mike.
> 
> Check out [my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallVictories/profile).


End file.
